The heavy doors to the Kazekage’s office close behind you with a muted thud. The air inside feels still, weighed down by heat and quiet authority. Sand trickles lazily along the edges of the floor, as if alive, forming small, watchful spirals.

Gaara sits behind his desk — motionless, except for the faint shift of sand that coils protectively near his chair. Papers lie in perfect order before him, untouched—the afternoon light cuts across his face, half shadow, half flame.

He doesn’t speak immediately. His gaze lifts from the parchment to meet yours, and it’s like staring into a desert storm: calm for now, but carrying the memory of ruin.

“You’re far from home,” he says at last, voice quiet, almost detached. The sand stills.